


Twelve Paths to Home

by Jaune_Chat



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 5 Acts Meme, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caretaking, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the 74th Hunger Games, Katniss goes on the run with the only person she can trust and the Capitol doesn't know to hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Paths to Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mollivanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollivanders/gifts).



> Written for [Five Acts](http://heeroluva.livejournal.com/250594.html) for [mollivanders](http://mollivanders.livejournal.com/444028.html?thread=5376892) for the acts: On the run together/caretaking.

The sunlight here is dimmer, not from the constant grime of coal dust, but from the towering trees, sawdust, and the clouds of birds that fill the air. It's cool and green, like being in the woods outside the fence of District 12. There was a reason Cinna brought me to District 7 first. I pushed myself out of bed and shoved my hair out of my face, the black strands looking foreign against my hands. But that's my protection; all of Panem knows my face, but Cinna can make me someone else.

It's the only way I can save those I love. The Capitol was set to come down on me, to make me an example. And I could try to ride it out, calm their suspicions, placate them, and risk everyone. Or I could run, and save them. Cinna showed up the day I made my decision, the one person I trusted the Capitol hadn't threatened yet.

"I'll help you keep them safe." That's what he said that convinced me.

I was a coward for running, for leaving Prim and my mother alone, for not saying goodbye to Gale, to try to say I was sorry to Peeta. Haymitch... he probably already knew. He knew too much. And he approved, I knew it. I hated him for that, hated him for being right. But I had to go before the Capitol sunk their claws into me, had me under their scrutiny for the Victory Tour.

In a way, that's what we were doing now. We can't stay long in any one place; even if every other district is larger than Twelve, we're still strangers there. But it's enough to rest for a while, to throw off the scent, to live a new life.

"Hey." Cinna's voice is soft as he rises from the bed next to mine, and he reaches out to tug at a strand of my hair. Gently, taking a close look at it, and I let him. He's seen me at my worst, and no one else but Peeta could say that. "We need to touch up your roots. You're losing color again." His hand moves up to my jaw and he looks me over closely. There's no metallic gold eyeshadow on his face now, just subtle color to make him look different, making his cheeks more hollow, exaggerating the line of his chin. You'd have to look more than twice to see a Capitol stylist under the rugged canvas and flannel of District 7.

"Then let's go."

Cinna managed to smuggle out a case of styling essentials when he left, and if I'd ever doubted the power of a good stylist, I hadn't after he'd managed to make me look like someone other than myself with only an hour's work. If we'd been in the Capitol, he'd have days to do his work, to sculpt us into something else entirely. But there's no time for sculptures, just charcoal sketches. He manages fantastically. It's his escape from living on the run, making me over. I let him have that, not just for our safety, but for him. I have my time in the woods, faking being a District 7 native, picking up forest lore, Cinna has me. These are the anchors we have to cling to.

My family and friends are safe. I tell myself that when I realize I don't know another living soul but Cinna in nearly the whole of Panem.

\--

District 4, I'm a tanned, sun-bleached blonde, Cinna carefully lightening my hair and darkening my skin with sprays from his kit, drops of color temporarily changing my eyes from Seam gray to ocean green. We end up learning to cast nets ourselves, testing our disguises against salt and wind, hauling up the day's catch with boats full of lifelong fishermen. I'm stronger than I look from hunting, but Cinna puts on muscle quickly. He's not willing to quit, doesn't want me out of his sight, not even when he's straining hard enough for others to want to make him rest.

"I'll be ok," I tell him. "If you get sunstroke and fall overboard, I might not bother to rescue you if you keep being stupid."

"I know." He checks me over again as he drains the water bottle I gave him. "Spend more time in the sun," he said, twining a lock of my hair around his finger. "It'll help with the look."

\--

District 9 is fields of grain as far as the eye can see. The waving grasses spread on endlessly, punctuated by the huge machines that spread seed and harvest the crops. Here I'm brunette again, though still tanned. Cinna's a few shades darker than he had been, his hair growing out and caught back in tight braids. Like District 4, there's no place to hide here, open to the sky, no sheltering trees, not like 7. Not like home. 

Cinna never leaves me, not when we're learning to check the silos, not when we learn to drive one of the enormous combines. I'm pretty much hopeless, Cinna far less so. I figure that balances out his near-collapsing in District 4. I hadn't felt resentment for him since I'd first seen him and he'd told me he was sorry I'd been forced to volunteer to save my sister's life. Sometimes I thought I should feel it now, someone hovering over me all the time. But Cinna had hovered over me in the Capitol, and there he'd been a friend. That hadn't changed. All we had were each other.

\--

We go to District 8 next, and I was the one that suggested it. I'm a dark redhead now, and Cinna's proud of the job. A smudge of make-up here and there age me several years, and I think even my mother wouldn't recognize me right away. It gives me the confidence to work alongside the weavers and dyers, asking more questions that I otherwise might not have done. I saw Cinna's face when we started work at the factory, how he lit up when he saw the stacks of fabric in the warehouse. These are the foundations of his craft; even if the very finest stuff is made in District 1, I recognize more than one of the fabrics that pass through my hands. I'd seen them on Effie, or Portia, or even the garments made for Haymitch and Peeta. 

District 8 isn't allowed to take fabric home, any more than District 12 is allowed to get their own coal, but everyone there learns to sew, and they learn to sew on bags of scraps. There's not a person in the District that doesn't have some patchwork garment from their lessons. The Capitol allows them that, only because it saves them resources. But Cinna... give the man a bag of scraps and he can turn it into pure gold. It's the clothes he makes while in 8 that nearly give us away, because one of the seamstresses at the machine next to him caught a glimpse of what he was doing and praised him far too loudly. A Peacekeeper heard, and we had to leave that night. But not without a half-dozen new garments in our bags and a smile on his face.

\--

District 5 is a good place to hide, a forest of buildings and factories rather than trees, everyone too busy with keeping the power plants going to look too closely at people's faces. They're more interested in hearing the numbers called out from different gauges and dials, checking settings and levels, doing complicated equations and shouting the answers down so levers can be thrown and wheels turned. It's organized chaos. It's perfect for what we need to do. 

Cinna braids my hair for our shift, not like my mother, but close and tight, making the dark blonde locks look shorter than they really are. We drill each other on the technical names of things we'll have to know to sound like we belong, both of us not exactly knowing what we're doing. Cinna starts laughing, his fingers tugging gently at my hair, as we stumble over the complicated words for the umpteenth time. I turn to look up at him, his hands still making me into someone else, and smile in return. Cinna's fingers slow and brush my neck as he finishes the braid.

\--

We're in District 6 again, a giant trainyard of a place, our hub for finding another place to go. It's been nearly a year, and when we passed through District 3, we'd caught a TV program broadcasting my death. It seems my disappearing act hadn't quite worked the way either me or the Capitol wanted it to. When we went through 11, there were places that looked like a warzone. I was an icon, and it seemed my presence wasn't even required for everything to go to hell.

I'd stared at that girl on screen in District 3, brunette with gray eyes, and could see my own reflection in the window glass, thinner now, eyes exaggerated and tinted blue, pale, white-blonde hair drawing attention away from my face. I didn't know her, the girl on the screen. That girl would do anything to save her family, to not disappoint Prim, to keep Gale safe and get Peeta home alive and she would hunt and kill and she knew all of that and nothing. I knew. I knew now how it was to drive cows in District 10, to haul nets in District 4, to pick fruit in District 11, and to starve to death in District 12. 

Cinna had put his hand in mine when we'd seen the program. And he'd asked, "When?" Stood by me and protected me all this time. Helped me stay me even if I looked nothing like me. And didn't question it when he saw I knew what was going to happen.

Now we were looking for the train to take us back 12. We'd find a way to get my family and friends out, keep them safe. Prim and my mother. Peeta and Gale. We knew how to hide now, how to move. We knew where to go, and who would listen to us. Even Haymitch. I looked up at Cinna as we slunk from track to track, dressed in the dark coveralls of railyard workers. Haymitch, who'd been my mentor when I'd been fighting for my life. He'd understand. He'd known what he was doing from the beginning. Known I'd need someone else who could mentor me through this, bestowing the sponsor gifts on me. I touched the pale braids under my hat, and remembered when I'd taught Cinna about mint tea and eating pine and keeping hunger at bay. He'd needed me too.

Cinna caught my eyes and nodded at the train going to 12. I hopped up first and held out my hand to help him up. We were going back home.


End file.
